


Weary Whimsy

by lulahbelle



Category: Music RPF, The Smiths
Genre: Gen, Johnny Marr is the Tsar of all that is Cool, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lulahbelle/pseuds/lulahbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Morrissey enjoyed Johnny's commentary, how he spoke of esoteric ideas confidently, as if trusting that he would understand."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weary Whimsy

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this is 2010, I read it over again and sort of almost liked it.
> 
> Set early on in their relationship. Can you tell how infatuated with Johnny Marr I am from this...

They were a new band. Morrissey didn't know Johnny very well, but it was apparent that he was not quite the uncaring, bouyant type that he seemed.

At odd moments he would come skulking out from the shadows he threw up around his true self.

They seemed already suited.

Johnny being someone who promised rewards for persistent interest and this being the only type of interest that Morrissey really knew how to give.

***

In the rehearsel space Morrissey looked at Johnny from the side.

His black hair shone like vinyl, classic, but he was dwarfed by Andy's leather jacket in a mundane way, its sharp, chic angles emphasising all the wrong bits of the body; bottom falling just below his immaculately waify waist, turned up collar obscuring the bottom of his pale face. His ever present cigarette was unseen, below collar level, emitting a undulating line of smoke towards the ceiling.

Looking down to the guitar slung over his body, his head fell further beneath the shield of his collar and he began to slowly play.

Each timed, complex, coordinated, crawl of his fingers making sound from magic, each new second prompting more.

Here, as always when he played, a familiar thought occurred to Morrissey about Johnny..

He was a living work of art.

His gift created a presence that filled the room, that could fill any room. It removed all attention that one could give to anything else. Mesmerising. The raw shock at the beauty of this boy's world was upsetting. How Morrissey would give anything to hold one tenths of the power.

On an immediate level Morrissey wanted to touch him. He wanted to scratch at him, to find the face that was common, the one that didn't intimidate him, the one he could control. The lidded and lustful one that must be there, hiding behind an overly long fringe and cyclical chords.

Overwhelming this, was the sensation Johnny's talent had of making him want to rewrite every line he had because they somehow seemed not good enough now. He felt energised by this rather than morose. Johnny's ability was not seperate from him, not opposing. It felt in some strange sense his, as if Johnny's ability only existed in its perfect melancholy form because of him.

The tune he played became lost and then vanished as abruptly as it came.

"It's got spirit that one, keeps on coming to me and driftin' away. Feels like a haunting cos I just can't get it out, like I get that far but not past that point and every step on is just wrong. It just feels wrong." Johnny said.

Morrissey enjoyed Johnny's commentary, how he spoke of esoteric ideas confidently, trusting that he would understand.

They were both of them so tired of keeping to themselves how romantic and poetic that they thought talking about music could be.

"Spirit?"

"Yeah," Johnny replied, refusing Morrissey the right to mock him because he knew he didn't really want to.

"You're so ancient for your age."

Johnny kept right away smoking, unmoved and focused again on playing.

Morrissey was somewhere too afraid of surrender to ever confess.

"Are you religious at all?"

"No, why? Do I seem like the type?" Johnny asked, not quite liking the thought that he might, for he didn't really approve of religious people, too dogmatic.

"I don't believe anyone is really. I give them too much credit. But what you do with that makes the idea sound almost reasonable to me."

Johnny laughed shortly like a sigh and stopped playing, letting his guitar loll away from him like an arm. Seized by an idea he moved to where he could comfortably reach the older man and with his index finger traced a cross on his forehead. Morrissey's defenses were quick and he reached out instinctively toward the flash of Johnny's retreating hand, but he couldn't bring his nerve to the level of grabbing him and settled instead for brushing against it as he said with mock gravity.

"My soul feels terribly, pure now."

Johnny smirked then continued as if it hadn't happened.

"Have you got any words on ya? I need something to draw out the poison."

He knew of course that Morrissey did have words on him and also that Morrissey didn't want him to see them yet.

"Surely it's more honey than poison."

"To you maybe. It's frustrating as fuck to me at the moment."

It dawned on Johnny uncharacteristically slowly.

"So you do like it then?"

Morrissey's blue eyes were alert in confusion, he'd presumed that much was obvious. He'd presumed that Johnny was a creature in need of little reassurance, who blundered off energetically down any route he chose regardless of what others thought of him.

Slowly he was revealed.

"It's precious. Infected with weary whimsy."

"Weary whimsy eh? Should we get it treatment?"

"The worse thing that could be done. I think it needs another dose."

Morrissey smiled at him with such pleasure and focus here he knew that little Johnny Marr was self conscious because almost tic like he pulled a face back at him. Morrissey laughed and smiled more.

Johnny, aching to be on the other side of the soul exhibition, just asked again with a certain directness, "So are you gonna show me the words you've written?"

Morrissey had yet to show the boy any of the possible lyrics for these songs that Johnny was improvising into Morrissey's cassette recorder. He didn't want to sing them or let them be seen until they were totally completely finished

"Tomorrow."

"You keep saying that, it's always tomorrow. You've been here all day, listening to what I'm doing, whether I fuck up or not."

Morrissey seemed to delight at his impatience but perhaps it was his own failiure to yield to it that he loved so much.

"Please," Johnny locked eyes with him and his eyes became saucers, brown, pretty begging.

"Please?" he tried again, steepling his hand awkwardly praying at him.

It made Morrissey laugh but all the while he was also shaking his head no.

"You won't be convinced?"

Morrissey shook his head, eyes lit with a smirk and Johnny kicked his shoe in mock tantrum.

Morrissey had no need of retaliation.

"When are the others coming?" Morrissey asked him.

"They'll be here soon."

"You'd better go out there and get them or they'll get lost, sheep need guiding to the pen."

"That's not a nice attitude to take... to the sheep. They happen to be very intelligent sheep you know," Johnny replied laughing and in his full way putting his hands on his hips in mock protest.

"Prize winning I'm sure."

"Very woolly."

That cracked Morrissey into hysterics, as silly things often did and Johnny laughed along, more at Morrissey finding it so improbably funny than at anything he'd said.

Johnny stood there staring at him and Morrissey stared back and there they truly knew and shared the joy they brought to one another.

"Go then if you're going," Morrissey said to him.

"You said I was going somewhere I didn't."

Johnny protested but he knew nonetheless that he would have to go rescue Andy and their drummer from downstairs, neither of them had been before to the rented rehearsel space and there were lots of similar rooms in the building so he did make his way to the door.

Then with a shallow laugh, as he left, Johnny lobbed at Morrissey, "Freak!"

Morrissey smirked to the empty room.


End file.
